Page 21 of Filthy Rich Santas

I shrug. “It’s easier to take care of than a real baby. Not that I plan on having any.”

Lana glances over at me, her eyebrows shooting up as a look I can’t interpret crosses her face. “You don’t want to have kids?”

“No.” I clear my throat, suddenly feeling a little awkward. “Do you?”

She beams, her expression brightening. “Yeah, I think so. I’ve always thought it would be amazing to be a mom.”

I nod, not surprised in the least. It’s just one more reason to kill off, or at least quarantine, the interest I’ve got in her. Lana is one of the best people I know, and unlike my own piece of shit father, she’d be a fantastic parent.

I spent plenty of time at her house when I was younger, hanging out with Caleb, and from what I saw of their parents, most of Lana’s sweetness is all her, not something she inherited from her folks.

That’s not always the case, though. Most of the time, the apple doesn’t seem to fall far from the tree, and there’s no way I’d ever put a child at risk of havingmefor a father. Not when I have no way of knowing if I’d be any better at it than my old man.

Thankfully, before the conversation can go any further down the current path, Lana’s phone rings. I relax a little, thankful for a break from talking about things that I’d rather not think about, but then tense up again when she pulls it out and frowns at the screen.

“Problem?” I ask, my protective instincts roaring to life.

She looks up at me with a quick smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “Oh, no. It’s nothing. I mean, it’s my mom. It’s fine.”

That sounds an awful lot like protesting too much, but she answers the call before I can decide what to do about it.

“Hi, Mom… no, I’m on the road already… yes, I remembered… I packed it… uh huh… yeah… yes, I already… okay.”

I can’t hear what Mrs. Reeves is saying, but from Lana’s side of the conversation, it sounds like the woman isn’t letting her get a word in edgewise. And from the look on Lana’s face, I’d guess that she’s either berating her or rattling off a list of demands and reminders that Lana neither wants nor needs.

Another pattern I remember well from when we were all younger.

Lana shrinks in on herself as the conversation drags on, her side of it devolving mostly into versions of “yes” and quiet sighs.

She picks at a napkin from the gas station we stopped at as the miles pass, and I nudge her hand, then pass her a ballpoint pen I keep on me for business.

She flashes me a quick smile that brings back a hint of her usual exuberance, and just like I suspected, immediately starts doodling as her mother drones on in her ear. It’s something I remember her doing a lot when she was younger, and it soothes some of my protectiveness to at least be able to provide her that small outlet.

When the conversation finally ends, she hangs up and tosses her phone onto the seat next to her and blows out a breath. “Sorry, guys.”

Tristan looks back at her. “For what?”

She shrugs, looking embarrassed. “Um, the four of us were talking, and…”

“Mothers,” Ryder finishes for her when she trails off, loading the word enough that she finally laughs.

“I know, right?” She shakes her head as she wads up the napkin and tosses it on top of her phone.

I pick it up as the two of them banter a little, flattening it out and smoothing it over my knee.

Lana has always been artistic, but damn. The call couldn’t have lasted more than a few minutes, but the sketch she whipped out is beautifully done. Obviously fast and with a distinct style that I’ve got no name for—but whatever it is, it makes the image feel vibrant and alive. With just a few lines, she brought to life the moment we all stopped at the gas station.

It’s like a snapshot, but better.

More personal.

“You gonna keep this?” I ask, running one of my fingers over the image.

She glances down at it, surprise on her face. “That?” She laughs, waving a hand at it. “Definitely not. It’s nothing. Just put it with the trash from our snack wrappers. Oh! But here’s your pen back.”

I take it from her, but when she looks away, I slip the napkin into my pocket along with the pen.

It’s not nothing. I’m not sure what itis, but “nothing” is definitely a word that doesn’t apply. Not when it comes to Lana Reeves.

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